Cruising For A Bruising (tentative title)
by Bambi Verlaine
Summary: This is my first attempt to create a vaudevillian SM "The Young Ones" fic. And SM goes for "Slapstick Motherfuckers", of course ;)


Everything was silent in Rick's room. Vyvyan could see some random stuff scattered all around, things like books, fanzines, a pile of dirty clothes, several degrees of filth and the fucking lamp on as always (that lousy cry-baby was secretly very afraid of the dark and he couldn't deal with dark environments for too long without tear-choking himself to death). Right in the middle of all, was Rick's twisted silhouette curled up on his bed, grabbing his squalid blanket eagerly. Everything about Rick centered around a crisis of attention: craving, wanting, needing, convulsing. Even asleep, there was an sordid aura of anxiety irradiating a toxic, fluorescent fire all over his skin. The whole bastard demanded too much attention, all the time. Even asleep, lonely and quiet, he was still making so much noise... just by being there and being him. For fuck's sake, wasn't he just revolting, thought Vyvyan. And let's not mention the odd whistles that came out from the wet snout of that asthmatic, sleeping creep.

Vyvyan tried to go about this cautiously and execute this delicate operation well. He had to cross the room and reach Rick's special secret place in the wardrobe. This had to be done perfectly, without crushing anything with his massive, dusty Doc Martens and especially without bashing the spotty bastard's big face. No matter how tempting it may be. The first part was already a piece of cake.

Besides, the noisy party downstairs was so loud that a casual stumbling on a chair followed by an also casual swearing rampage didn't really make a difference.

He was staring to feel a bit out of his head. He'd nicked an exquisite joint from a lousy stoner friend of Neil and had taken three deep pulls before enter Rick's room. Now, he was all lost and wandering around in circles. What was he doing here again? Oh yes. Of course. He had to sneak in, find where the little shite hid his savings and get out as soon as possible. Then, he would come back to the party and go out with his moronic mates to have a few artesanal beers made of cat piss and acid rain and beat things to oblivion with a cricket bat.

He recovered himself from his little slip-up quickly and rushed to Rick's closet. He scrambled around between Rick's clothes and found some bread between some crusty undies. That's odd, he thought. Anyone would think that this brat would be excruciatingly careful, close to a Sandinista ninja heart-surgeon level, about anything related to money. But this really was a piece of cake. One even could drown it generously into a warm, sweet cup of tea and give it a satisfactory bite. If only...

-Aha! Vyvyan! Gotcha, you bastard!- Rick called out, jumping out from the messy bed. He stood up, wearing a wrinkled, buttoned gray shirt that was almost suffocating his blushed face. He wrapped a sheet around his waist in a prude manner. His body was straining on theatrical, self-congratulatory indignation. Every single gesture was a very well polished piece of cruelty.

"I knew I'd catch you some day twrying to stick your nose into my pwoperty, you, you _sneaking bloody thief_!"

The accusatory, nervous finger didn't take too long in appear.

Vyvyan, without turning his head (or his hands of the money), gave himself a wicked smile. He had known perfectly well this could happen. In fact, it would have been a pity if this wasn't the typical outcome for the whole intricate operation. Being discrete was the most boring thing to do or be, indeed.

-Shut up, you girl!- Vyvyan served a straightforward punch to shut up Rick's face. The anarchist fell over. He looked miserable but also kind of hilarious, with his loose whities (well, more of a yellow-stained in some parts) and his tiny birdie legs all dramatically spread.

Rick recovered quickly as always. He got some kind of sweet adrenaline rush and thrill out of being completely trashed and reduced to scum. The result was a superiority trip blasting hard through his head, finding its way towards the pit of his stomach warming up the wake of his pubes.  
>He'd really enjoy being angry indeed, tasting the sugared flavor of fury in his swollen, crude lips, feeling a bit thirsty after splatting feverish energy all around him.<p>

-You won't get away with my money, you bloody bastard!-

-Says WHO? JUST WATCH ME!- Vyvyan ranted on his sandpaper voice, giving big foot steps on the wooden floor, like he was wearing some giant paint-filled buckets for shoes, cheerfully kicking everything in the middle on the way to the door, just for fun's sake.

-Stop it! Stop it! Just stop it! VYVYAAAAAN!- Rick grabbed desperately the punk by the shoulders of his old denim jacket, trying to stop him from the door. Instead, he was pushed aside pathetically. Catching some breath, he quickly jumped on Vyvyan's back, punching him frantically.

-That's it! I'll call the police! _I'LL-CALL-THE-BLOODY-FWREAKING-PIGS_ if you take one more step! I swear I'll do!

Vyvyan took this as a challenge. He decided to play a bit of raging bull. Just like last time. The pot was giving him the most amazing ideas. He grinned vastly, indulging himself on what'll come.

Climbed on his back, Vyvyan could feel Rick hesitating a bit. He could even feel the arrhythmic moan of the anarchist's heart, crashing all over behind his back. The punk stopped at the door's threshold and everything was ghastly quiet. He decided to give Rick some brief time out to feel himself safe at last (let's make that bastard believe that his threats maybe had some impact on him after all), and then prove him that he was fatally wrong.

-Suck this!

Vyvyan started to jump up and down wildly like a mad bull, laughing manically, while giving thunder-like elbow blows that would tenderize Rick's soft parts even more. Rick wrapped his arms around Vyvyan's neck, painfully trying to stay cool but shaking all over like a nervous wreck, gasping imprecations with his marmalade voice. But he wouldn't give up. Not without a desperate, proper fighting.

-STOP IT! VYVYAN! JUST STOP ITTTTTT!- Rick's face suddenly met the hard cold wall. His right cheek was being all happily dragged around the room, caressing the filth of the walls with his own warm, battered flesh. Vyvyan was having lots of fun indeed colliding himself all over the room. The pot was pleasantly working on him, melting in one strange temporal dimension the rapid anxiety that came on spurts from Rick and his own detained slow-motion perception skinning alive every single detail of the scene. The smell of danger made him feel dizzy, light-headed, free and out of control, and this situation drove him remarkably happy. Happy to be crazy. Happy to be crazy here, insanely playing with Rick.

One of the last thing he remember was his own laughter, the one that was making his whole sweaty body throb, being suddenly intercepted by an unexpected soulless blow of his own head against a wall. He and Rick fell hard on the floor. Before he passed out near to an unconscious Rick, he sighed and that sigh sparked some crazy connections that made him aware of some type of raw stiffness crying out on his crotch. He knew the party won't be missing them at all.


End file.
